| fly or die | |
| Thursday, December 23, 2004 | |
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Meet My Parents
"Do they have turkey and all that?" Matt asked. "Yeah, we have turkey." "With cranberry sauce?" "Yes, with cranberry sauce." "Oh boy!"His eyes shone. It has to happen some day - he meeting my folks. So might as well make it Christmas and hope that the season of giving would find them more forgiving. Earlier, I called Mom and asked her to set an extra place. She lets out a surprised "oh!" and said "7.30. Don't be late. We don't wish to wait for you like last year." "But I was rushing a job Mom." "We make time for important things, don't we?" We hung up. I shivered. The chill from Ampang has swept in. It's been 5 years since I moved out of my parent's home. I pretty much only visit on Easter, Christmas and other festival days. "What should I get them?" he asked. "You don't have to." "I must ... what does your Mom like?" "Some thing frilly, I suppose." "Huh? What about your Dad?" "I don't know." "How about a tie?" "Whatever." "Should I bring a bottle of red?" I sighed. Since I invited him, Matt has been hyper. I'm glad he is excited, unlike how I was when I met his. But still the worry worm eats me. "Matt, my folks are not like your folks, okay. We're not one loud talking, big eating Hakka family. Gawd, we don't even speak any dialect. They're very ... er ... proper." He paused. "You think ... they'll be okay with me?" "Of course my dear," I say and cup his face in the palm of my hands. "They'll love you. It's me they have problems with." That aside, my record of "Men Brought Home" stands at zero approval. Zack with his long hair - out! Yun with his tattoos ala Vin Diesel - out! Bryan with tattoos and so much metal pierced into his body that I always thought it possible to lift him off the ground with a powerful magnet - 2 outs! And now, Matt. Smooth shaven, sweet smelling Matt. Without a single James Dean trait. What happened to me? Did I not say I would never date a man without the requisite leather jacket and navel ring? Did I sell out to the establishment? "Should I wear a shirt and tie?" he asks. *Sigh* I already know what they'll serve for dinner - my words. And Dad and Mom will have a very merry Christmas. At last. | |
| Tuesday, December 21, 2004 | |
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If you're happy and you know it ...
... clap you hair! (clap x2) (Everybody now!) If you're happy and you know it, clap your hair (clap x2) If you're happy and you know it, and you really want to show it If you're happy and you know it, clap your hair (clap x2) I've never noticed men's hair styling products before but since Masahiro Motoki, the oh-so-yummy lead "actor" in the Gatsby commercials clapped his way into my TV, I swear to God I wanted to go out and get myself some Gatsby.  
The series of ads, the Mohawk and Karaoke, is hilarious, engaging and effective. I have yet to meet anyone who couldn't remember or didn't like those ads. In short, this is how ads are supposed to be done. Each ad with a single compelling proposition, brilliantly dramatized. And the result is clutter-cutting high-impact advertising.  And of course, it helps too if you have the "I-want-to-run-my-fingers-through-his-Gatsby-hair" Motoki.
If you've yet to see the ads, click here to visit a Gatsby ad fan site. Sorry, only Japanese versions. There's a short synopsis in English. But you get the drift. | |
| Tuesday, December 14, 2004 | |
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All he wants for Christmas is ...?
"I got you your Christmas pressie already," Matt announces. A chorus of 'oh-nos' echoed through my mind. Honestly, I have totally forgotten to get him some thing. Yeah, I should be shot. Especially with this being our first Christmas together and all that romantic la-dee-da. But I'm just not very clued in on birthdays, anniversaries and the like. Who can keep track of these dates? Well, one person does spring to mind. Matt. Mr Scrupulous. He sets his PDA to remind him 5 days in advance. Again, 3 days before and on the actual day itself. Geez. How can I compete with that? Well, on the bright side, I guess he'll never forget my birthday as long as his PDA is ticking. "And you're not getting anything," I say, acting nonchalant. The trick is, 'when caught, always pretend that it is no big deal.' "It's some thing you reeeally love." "You've been a bad, bad boy, according to Santa's report," "You need it. Or should I say, want it." "You scored only 32 points. Way, way below par." "I can't wait to see your face when you get it." "And I can't wait to see your face when you get nothing." "It's alright, you know," he says finally, obviously not thrilled by my babbling, "if you don't have the time to get me something." Oh, he had added 'guilt tripping' to his repertoire. Dang! "Alright, alright," I say, "I'll renegotiate with Santa and advance you a few brownie points. He might be able to squeeze in a Mr Incredible for you, if the elves are not too clogged up with orders from 7 year olds." Problem is, I have no idea what to get Matt. Something unique, yet practical. Something fun, yet not flippant. Something meaningful, yet not too committal. Okay, cut the crap. I'm a tight wad, what can I get for under RM300? I know, I know, I'm a cheapskate. Any ideas? P.S. Btw, Santa, if you're reading this, all I want for Christmas is an Ipod Mini in apple green. Drool, drool, pant, pant. | |
| Thursday, December 09, 2004 | |
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Boxing with Big Billy
"So, how was your year?" Big Billy asks. I'm in his office - on the settee - in the corner, next to the lamp. He moves from his desk to the armchair opposite me. He lights up, raises his right brow and gives me that smile. The smile that says "I have you cornered." This year-end evaluation is going to suck. By default, I hate evaluations because I always come out feeling lousy. Ne'er good enough. Always missing the mark by just that little bit. "Pretty okay," I muster my most chirpy voice and square my chest in preparation for some hard and swift blows. I hope he won't bite off my ear ala Tyson. "No metal, huh?" I felt an invisible punch to my gut. Ooof. I straighten myself and mumble. "It's been tough ... with Heng leaving." "So?" he says and lands a left hook. Blam! I whither. Deep down in me, I know nothing is a good enough excuse for settling for mediocrity. I start fiddling with my pen, while he leafs through my selection of what I thought were my best campaigns for the year. He makes a lot of irritating hmm and hums. "You did do some nice stuff. Some high points here and there. But ...," he pauses for effect, "nothing brilliant." A right hook, a swing to the chin. And I'm down. The whistle blows. The referree counts. Half and hour later, head hung low, I slink back to my cube. Frank Sinatra is singing "Have yourself a merry little Christmas" on my player but I feel like crying. I feel bruised. Everything seems a little grey, muffled, numb - like the split seconds before you black out. Except that I didn't. I just sat down and looked at my monitor that has Jude Law as wallpaper. "Nothing brilliant." Those words cut. Deep. That's when I wonder, yet again, when do you give up on a dream? And Frank continues to sing ... Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow So have yourself a merry little Christmas now.
... the soundtrack of my life. | |
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